The Black Mark
by chokolaj
Summary: Angsty fic exploring Shep’s black mark AU I suppose. Since the show won’t do it, I’ve done it for them.


TITLE: The Black Mark

AUTHOR: chokolaj

SUMMARY: Angsty fic exploring Shep's black mark (AU I suppose). Since the show won't do it, I've done it for them.

WARNING: We all know war isn't pretty. As this fic deals with such a thing, I want you to be wary that there are some pretty gruesome things that happen or are witnessed in this fic. So if you have a queasy stomach, turn away now, please.

Also, things may not be up to military parlance or medical, for that matter, so I apologize for my ignorance.

DISCLAIMER: Do I really have to say it? We all know it. 'Nuff said.

ETERNAL THANKS: Go to Titan5 for support and encouragement.

-----------o------------

Shep had a lot of buddies in his military career. He learned a lot about humanity, too. He lost comrades…mostly to war. But he never lost faith in them. He would fight to the death for any one of them. It was something engrained in him from birth, he supposed. He'd always been the type to bend over backwards for another, no questions asked. There came a day, however, where that charity cost him dearly. He would never forget it. Hell, the military wouldn't let him: it was the reason he received the black mark on his record.

--o--

Shot to hell.

That was his helicopter.

And so was his career.

Sand whipped into his eyes and he took a moment to slide on some protective eye gear. The desert sun was blazing hot.

From the intelligence reports sent from mission control that morning, the spy plane had photographed a small area in the foothills of the northern mountain range. There was a small camp there. Always shifting in location, but never straying too far from the generalized area.

Taliban.

Two men from his unit were in there: a reconnaissance mission had gone sour. Five men died. Five men survived but only three of them returned to base camp, badly beaten. According to Sheppard's CO, however, there was no way to infiltrate the area without being spotted by the enemy. By no means did the military wish for the Taliban to know about they're little spying game. They were eagerly awaiting the enemy to make the first strike. Two lives were forfeit in everyone's eyes. There was no going back for them.

Sheppard couldn't accept that.

He didn't give up: it wasn't in his blood. His childhood for example, had been filled with disappointment and tragedy. Blow after blow and he kept getting up, looking for the good in everybody and believing that life would turn out all right. Even when it kept proving him wrong, he kept on smiling with that cocky grin, as if to say: come on, is that all you got? It was a matter of survival for him. And it worked beautifully.

Until now.

Now, at this very moment, he had so much pent up rage and frustration that he felt sure he was going to explode. His fingers itched. His eyes scanned the horizon endlessly. He was anxious, ready to strike. He needed an outlet. What a better place to expunge some of that energy: enemy territory where the rules of war faded into the reddened lines of survival of the fittest. Just him verses the enemy.

Justice _would_ be served.

A sudden disturbance in the silence sent Sheppard flat on his stomach against the hot sand. Windblown sand obstructed his view momentarily as he visibly searched the horizon about him for that sound. It was distant: a series of gunshots. Automatic weapons fire. From the sound of it aged Russian warfare. Sheppard allowed a small bitter smile upon his lips. The enemy was close.

He scanned the immediate area beyond his downed helicopter. With little to no smoke and a shot engine, Sheppard figured the enemy wouldn't come looking for him. He was a skilled enough pilot that he was able to maintain control of the trembling helicopter and head off a safe distance before coming down…hard.

There was little cover here. The sand dunes rose steadily towards the distant mountain range to the north, but not steep enough to lay cover behind. To his south and west, there was a line of dried shrubbery. The limbs twisted like skeletons clawing for the sky, dark and desolate. To his east, more sand, but dropping in elevation to even out to the distant rough terrain of more foothills.

Afghanistan was downright dismal. Or at least what he'd seen of the place. Even from the sky, the country had looked barren and scarred: incapable of sustaining life. Some natives may have considered it beautiful, but to Sheppard, it was hell on Earth. He had no intentions of dying on its soil. He wouldn't give the place such satisfaction to claim another life. So it seemed he wasn't only battling the Taliban, and soon his superiors, he was also battling the very earth he lay upon. All odds were against him. Some days were just shitty like that.

More gunfire. Followed by a muffled explosion. They were either testing weaponry, or engaging in training exercises.

The rapid beat of air expanding and contracting around helicopter rotors roared over a shift in the wind. Sheppard whipped his head around, squinting into the blazing sky to the southwest.

Shit.

Holland.

Sheppard closed his eyes and swore. Glancing back up to the fast approaching black hawk, Sheppard grimaced. He was on radio silence. He couldn't warn his friend. Holland had probably decided to follow Sheppard's bad example and now it was going to get him killed. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach as Sheppard bravely came to his knees. He hunched his shoulders, pointing his rifle downwards. He found himself scanning the area for the enemy, as if there could possibly be a way for him to lay cover for his friend. However, at this point he was desperate.

And there it was, spiraling into the sky just beyond the northern ridge, leaving a beautiful arching trail: an RPG. Sheppard roared and began to run towards the approaching helicopter. Sand sprayed around his boots and settled in his wake. He arched his neck, watching as the missile zoomed low overhead an eerie hiss of air left in its wake. He screamed for his friend, screamed for the missile to sputter out before hitting target, screamed for the world to be right again.

The blast rocketed him backwards.

Sand flew. A sickening smack reached his stunned ears. Sheppard lifted his head up from the ground. Holland's helicopter had crashed not too far from his own. Sparks flew among the puffs of black billowing out of the mangled cockpit. Sheppard slammed his fist into the sand beside him, cursing out loud, staring back up at the sky. After several moments, he gathered himself up and woozily came to a stand. He stumbled the few hundred yards to the newly downed chopper to confirm the fate of his friend. To his surprise, Holland was alive. Badly hurt, but alive.

One small grace, thank the powers that be. Maybe the mission wouldn't be a scrap after all.

"Captain Holland." He called, keeping his voice low: sound carried in the desert and he was sure the enemy would be upon them at any moment. His friend made little movement. There was blood everywhere. Sheppard had seen so much of that by this time in his tour that he was sure he would never want to look at that color again in his entire lifetime. It made his stomach churn.

"Holland." He called again. Sparks flew. Smoke drifted. Sand ground against metal in the wind.

A faint whimper met his ears. Searing heat from the downed wreckage warmed his already sweat-beaded face. Sheppard grimaced. His self-appointed rescue mission had just gotten more complicated.

-------o-------

"Fifteen."

"Sorry?"

"'S how many kills I've got under my belt so far. You?"

Sheppard's brow furrowed momentarily and he shook his head.

"That leg still bothering you?" He motioned with his head towards the captain's bloody leg, wrapped in a bundle of field dressings. The sand directly beneath his knee was a growing stain of rich deep red.

"I don't get you, Shep." Holland chuckled lightly, keeping one hand tight across his midsection. Sheppard glanced back then turned his attention once again to the ridges of sand surrounding them.

"There's not much _to_ get, Holland."

He didn't see it, but Holland rolled his eyes and winced, shaking his head with a smirk.

"Why'd you do this? Why'd you come back for them?" 

There it was. It was the question that was going to end his military career. Sheppard took his time scanning the surrounding area, then his weapon, before turning to look over his shoulder at his comrade.

"I should be asking you the same thing. Damn it, Holland! Our chances for getting those men back just went from pretty damn likely to not a chance in hell. What were you thinking?" His voice rose, spittle spraying from his drying lips as he glared back at the captain. The man returned the glare, adjusting his body so he didn't slouch so much.

"You and me: we're not so different you know. Both come from military families. Live for speed. Don't take life seriously. Stick by our word. Hey, you know the code. Integrity first. Service before self. Excellence in all we do. Those words are fricken' branded into us from the beginning. You ask why I did it? Because I can't stand to see another good man go down because he did the right thing. That's why I did it. What's your pathetic excuse?"

The outburst left Sheppard speechless. His mouth hung agape as he studied Holland's pained but steady stare. He blinked hard several times, recovering from the shock to portray an unperturbed look upon his face.

"You hungry?"

Holland fell into a bout of laughter mixed with painful coughs and gasps. Sheppard made his way over to his comrade, placing a hand on his shoulder, sympathy painted across his features. All the while, his wary gaze fell to the horizon around them.

"Seriously man. I saw you with the CO. You guys were battling it out. You know you aren't going to get outta this one…that is _if _you get out of this one…without some pretty severe consequences." Holland tried to gain eye contact with Sheppard, but failed to do so. Sheppard, stubborn as he was, wouldn't give him the opportunity.

"That doesn't matter." Came the stout reply.

"What does?'

Sheppard remained quiet for a few moments, chewing his lip and pondering on how he would respond. Finally, he took a deep breath, turned to Holland, and gave him the most sincere look he could muster.

"Nothing like pissing off the old man."

"Huh?"

"Stubborn as a mule, the bastard. Always looking out for number one. Made life pretty miserable. We were always battling it out. I eventually wised up and didn't let the old man control me anymore. The moment that happened, he lost. Point is, he never took risks, never sacrificed his own needs for another human being. I didn't want to be like that. I wanted to be everything he wasn't. I guess you could say I compensated for where he lacked in the grand scheme of things."

With that, Sheppard fell silent, again scanning for potential threats.

"Never leave a man behind." Holland shook his head once and jutted his chin out. "Simple as that."

"Yeah." Sheppard replied, a haunted look clouding his eyes. "Something like that."

--------o--------

Several hours in the heat of the desert sun would make even a canteen of brown water look tempting. For that's what the two soldiers had been intently staring at for the last half hour. An hour before that, one rather brave, or stupid in Sheppard's opinion, soldier of the Taliban was doing a little reconnaissance. He wasn't very stealth about it, and Sheppard spotted him before he could get too close.

Several resounding pops later and a thud sent sand spraying into the air intermixed with droplets of dark red blood. The body was quickly dragged into the carcass of the helicopter Sheppard and Holland laid refuge against. Nothing was said after that. They claimed anything of use from the body…an old Russian rifle with some spare ammunition, some kind of dried lump that could be considered a biscuit, and a weathered canteen with a few ounces of brownish river water settled in the bottom.

"You can't tell me that guy was going to survive long drinking _that_ shit." Holland tried to joke. But neither of them was laughing at this point. They hardly had the energy to muster.

Holland was hiding it pretty well, but Sheppard knew the man was in a bad way. His lips were dry and cracked, his leg was slowly oozing something other than blood, and his skin was pale…too pale. And even in the ninety-degree shade the helicopter barely provided as cover, the man did not produce a single bead of sweat.

Holland chuckled then, though it sounded strained and slightly delirious. Sheppard shared the chuckle, not entirely sure of its meaning.

"What?"

"You remind me of my kid sister."

Sheppard rolled his eyes and gave the Captain a look.

"Ah, gee, thanks?" His questioning gaze prompted the injured man into another bout of laughter that ended in painful winces and gasps. Sheppard stiffened. There wasn't much he could do for the man at this point. And that fact alone was killing them both.

"No, no, no. Ha. You see it's just that, she always looked at me, like she could see me for whom I really was. She had this, this sixth sense, you know? Like she could almost feel what I was feeling even. She knew when I broke up with my fiancée even before I walked in the door. See, Shep. You've got that look on your face now. You know? You know that I know, too. We're up shit creek, is what we are Shep. And still you deny it. What does it take man? What does it take to get you rattled?" Holland inquired, coughing out the last few words. A few specks of red appeared on his chapped lips that Sheppard steadfastly tried to ignore.

It was funny how dying gifted one with insight.

Sheppard shifted over until he was facing Holland, one hand planted awkwardly on the man's drooped shoulder. It was already cold to the touch, even in the blazing heat of the desert.

"Take a sip, you're dehydrated." Sheppard demanded, not giving Holland the chance to dig any further into his already faltering psyche.

Holland's pale and shaking hand bumped against his arm, his eyes pleading with Sheppard to drop the act.

"Come on man, I'm pouring out my heart here. You this brutal to all the chics?"

Sheppard laughed then, genuine and pure. The wrinkles at the corner of his eyes were more pronounced than ever. Shuffling away to get a better view of the ridge behind them, he took a deep breath and faced Holland. His expression morphed into one of melancholy.

"Look, I know time is running out. But listen to me, Shep. Listen." Holland paused, reading the man's stony face: he had his full attention now and he wasn't about to let that slip by now. "You do good out here, man, don't you forget that. No matter what happens. I've got your back. I would've gone all the way, man…hell I _did_, didn't I? Nothing like going down in a blaze of glory, eh? You have to remember that Shep. No matter what….."

The next moment became but a blur to Sheppard. It was the single most defining moment of his military career.

Grains of sand and tendrils of fire mushroomed into the air along with a deafening ringing noise. An unknown force slammed into Sheppard, hurling him backwards.

The next he saw was blue, nothing but clear blue. He blinked. Blue again. He blinked again. It was the sky. He was lying on burning hot sand.

He was in the desert.

The Taliban.

Holland!

It all came back in a rush, his heart thrumming as he struggled to pull himself up into a seated position.

Smoke filled his vision briefly as he heard the familiar crackle of flames nearby. His nose smelled burnt flesh, but he could not discern from where it was coming. Carefully picking himself up from the ground, Sheppard wiped his hands clean of sand and scanned the immediate area before him.

There no longer was a helicopter with Holland lying refuge against. Instead, a deep smoking and flaming chasm lay before him. He circled in place, in shock, wondering if he had been somehow captured and dragged away from Holland. Then he turned back upon the sight of one item lying not five feet from his position.

He fell to his knees. Grabbed his hair. Sank down to the blistering sand. Tears fell from his eyes.

Just out of the line of his sight lay a single boot. Military issue. With a foot still embedded within.

War was messy. And Sheppard would never forget it.

-------o-------

After several hours of walking through the harsh midday sun, Sheppard had stumbled upon his final destination: a small camp of Taliban soldiers. They weren't particularly hidden well amongst the rocky outcropping shadowing them from the sun. Yet from the perspective of a spy plane, they were as visible as a desert mirage. There, but not really there.

He knew he was beyond reasoning at this point. Hell he was walking right into death's arms. Suicidal. He didn't have anything left to lose. He only had everything to gain. Nothing like putting a positive spin on imminent death.

--o--

The confident yet delirious soldier strolled up to the three alerted Afghans with a smile and a wave. The men held their Russian rifles tight, staring in disbelief. Surely this man was crazy. He wore the clothes of the enemy, yet he was not fearful of them: quite the opposite in fact.

"Hi…you wouldn't happen to be harboring any POWs back there, now would you?" The man asked with a drunken smirk, leaning slightly off center to look beyond them.

--o—

An object just outside his vision came swiping downwards. Everything went black.

Sheppard awoke lying on his side in a cold and dark place. He heard shuffling nearby. Whispers. A hand touched his shoulder. His head pounded. He opened his eyes. A friendly face hovered above him and he knew. Knew without a doubt that he finally had found them.

"Hey guys." He mustered through an achy throat. He heard positive sounds of greetings and relief from a few disembodied voices.

"What took you so long?!" Came a clear voice above all others.

Sheppard laughed into sweet dark oblivion.

The next time he awoke wasn't so pleasant.

They were kneeling, five of them in a line. He gazed into the eyes of the four men lined beside him once again in the blistering heat of the desert sun. Two he recognized instantly as they were from his unit. The other two were foreign, yet he knew by their uniforms that they were allies. That, and they sported the universal Red Cross bands around their biceps. He nodded his head at them then looked to his two American comrades. They shared a look that spoke volumes. It was time to get out of this mess.

"I swear if they gave a medal for bullheadedness I'd give it to you myself, Major." One of his comrades stated loudly. He fired back with a smirk upon his lips.

"Maybe you can hold my hand at the court martial, too, Lieutenant?"

"Boys, boys. You both know I'm arranging for a thorough ass-kicking for both of you the moment we return, don't you?" The man third down the row from him leaned forward to gain eye contact with the two.

"Yes, sir." The Lieutenant replied heartily.

"Of course, Colonel." Sheppard replied, his slightly unsteady gaze straying to the view before him. The smirk never strayed from his lips.

The remaining captives glanced at each other warily, then to the snickering Americans with raised eyebrows. The banter between them was enough for them to relax, but not enough for them to literally stop shaking in their boots. The five of them were lined up before the death squad that was currently loading their weapons not twenty yards from their position. The Taliban weren't paying much attention to them at the moment, only talking amongst them and their superior, speaking in a tongue none of the captives understood.

They all knew this was the end for them. But facing death with a smile was their final way of saying, "fuck you" to the enemy, and the universe at large.

A voice screamed at them and the guy at the end of the line was shoved forward roughly. He nearly fell on his face before steadying his balance. The man that had shoved him from behind grabbed his wrists and forced him to place his hands behind his head. A threatening glare to the rest of the captives sent all their hands to their heads without another moment wasted.

The Taliban soldiers, in their sandy desert-colored uniforms billowing in the wind, turned to them then, weapons in hand. They stood in a line opposite them. An order was barked from behind them. The rifles rose. Five deep narrow chambers pointed in their direction, five sets of eyes glaring down from the scopes beyond.

Hearts pounded. Sweat slicked overheated skin. Wind rustled up scorching sand. Gazes filled with hate met gazes filled with defiance.

Time had finally run out. Death was upon them.

Then came the unexpected.

A decapitated head rolled into their view. Empty eyes stared back at them. A trail of red slithered from the neck to the owner's body. The head had belonged to the man at the end of the line. The strike of the offending blade had been so swift that no sound had been made.

The Lieutenant threw up bile, bending over and crying out. The Colonel started but stilled just as quickly, knowing in his place that any action would be his last. Sheppard only stared straight ahead. But the man that had obviously served alongside the now beheaded cried out, scrambling through the sand towards that bloody mess of a head.

A shot rang out and three bodies flinched. The fourth fell to the ground without a sound.

The Lieutenant was beyond reason now and the Colonel simply shared a look with Sheppard. The five barrels pointing at them never wavered. The man giving the orders to kill was pacing proudly behind them.

Then the Lieutenant did something that most likely saved Sheppard's life. It was unexpected to such a point that it even had the enemy stalling. He lunged out at the leader strolling behind them. He swiftly grabbed the bloodstained sword hung deftly in the leader's belt and struck the man down. Strike upon strike. The leader never had a chance to retaliate.

The five soldiers who had trained their weapons at the captives lowered them in shock. That was all Sheppard and the Colonel needed. Screaming at the top of their lungs, they charged forward. Two of the men raised their rifles and fired. Sheppard flinched but nothing more. The other three ran. Cowards. Sheppard attacked the man directly in front of him, seeing his commanding officer strike the other remaining soldier.

Fists pummeled into soft flesh and the hard steel of a weapon rammed into his rib cage. Sheppard fell onto the earth and grabbed a fistful of sand as the Taliban soldier threw himself down onto him, never ceasing in his tirade to kill Sheppard. But for every strike issued to him, Sheppard answered with equal, if not stronger force. He could distantly hear the Colonel fighting arm in arm with another soldier, but knew the man could hold his own. Sheppard struggled with man on top of him, intending on showering that fistful of sand into his eyes.

A shot rang out and the four men stilled their actions, looking up towards where the leader and the Lieutenant had been. A single Taliban of officer status stood before them, a rifle pointed at the still body of the Lieutenant, now lying on the ground before him. A red stain was gradually seeping outwards from his head. The officer glanced up. His dark eyes burned with absolute hatred.

Sheppard felt himself being pulled up by the collar of his shirt. The Colonel was given the same treatment and then both men were driven to their knees once more. The soldiers they had been fighting held them firmly from behind.

The officer stepped forward, over the bodies of their comrades, over the severed head, and on to stop a mere yard before the remaining captives. His nostrils flared as he glared down at them, receiving only the same menacing hatred he reserved for their kind.

At that moment, Sheppard felt the barrel of a gun being pressed to the back of his aching head and he knew. He knew beyond a doubt that this was the end for him. He dared a glance out of the corner of his eyes to the Colonel beside him, in much a similar state as he. The feeling was mutual.

The officer knelt before them then, looking from one to the other, studying their uniforms, their faces…making them squirm under his scrutiny. He smiled. It sent chills down Sheppard's back.

He glanced to the two disheveled soldiers behind them and spoke in that foreign tongue. Whatever was being said was unnerving to both Sheppard and the Colonel. They weren't going to end things easily, it seemed.

The smiling officer backed away from them then, his eyes shifting from them to the soldiers behind them. Sheppard's stomach plummeted. That shift of focus was the command to kill.

The barrel stationed against his head shifted and at that moment, Sheppard realized instinctively what was about to happen. They were going to make him become the witness to _four_ brutal deaths. Sure, they were going to kill him eventually, but they knew that the best way to kill a man was through his head, not his heart. They were going to toy with him. Make him fear every moment, thinking that it would be his last. Play with him until they had their fill and then, just maybe, they'd deliver on their promise and kill him. The four men had been captured in the action of saving the lives of others. Sheppard had walked into the hands of the enemy willingly, so that he could retrieve those men. Now, the enemy was going to make him pay for thinking he could save lives, too.

The killing shot sent his heart into a flurry of rapid beats. He cowered, his forearms stationed protectively above his head. Silent tears streamed down his flushed cheeks. Second time he'd cried that day, as much as he'd hate to admit it.

He had failed. For all the world he had believed he would be returning to base camp with the rescued men, laughing over another close call and taking bets on who would get drunk and pass out first that evening. The shot had not only pierced through the flesh of the last POW beside him: it had torn a hole through his very belief in himself and his abilities.

He had _failed_.

From that moment forward, he would do everything in his power to regain that belief. He took a steadying breath ready to face the enemy with everything he had left within him.

Heart pounding, eyes filled with sorrow, he glanced wearily up into the eyes of the officer. There was no remorse there. Only satisfaction. That satisfaction, however, added fuel to the fire already consuming him.

That was the precise moment Sheppard snapped.

On that day, there was nothing to stop Major John Sheppard. Nothing at all.

That day, Sheppard survived.

-------o-------

The drone of a military jeep carried far in the eerie stillness of the night. Night patrols in the desert often were reserved for those soldiers in need of attitude adjustments. Just one night of patrol was enough to straighten out even the most cock-bulled soldier in a squad. Every little sound in the night carried on the wind like haunting whispers. There was no way to discern the distance or direction of such sounds. And though the desert nights could be cold, temperature had nothing to do with the chills that ran down one's spine.

So when shuffling of a rather large object met their ears, they squinted their eyes into the pitch night. That ever burning question on their minds: man or beast? Their weapons held at the ready, the soldiers were often a bit trigger happy at times like this.

One of the men on the night patrol flipped on the searchlight of his parked jeep. Light shone across gradual ripples of sand. Movement in the fading edge of the beams caught their eyes. They squinted.

A disheveled figure came into view, stumbling in the loose sand. There was blood on every inch of him. The man wore military fatigues and boots that were so dark and glistened in blood that the only way for the patrolmen to identify him as a friendly was by the shimmering dog tags dangling from his drooping neck.

Two of the soldiers immediately rushed to the man. He batted his shaking hands at them, squinting his swollen eyes. The man was in such a horrible state the soldiers were sure he would fall dead at any moment. He was wheezing and there was blood seeping from his left ear. His once spiky hair lay matted against his head. His chest was mottled with bruises and oozing flesh wounds. His pale lips were chapped from dehydration. He stumbled briefly before catching himself, shoving them off as they tried to assist him.

"Sir? What happened sir?" One of the soldiers asked, trying to gain eye contact with eyes that were glassy and unfocused.

The man was definitely disoriented, but nonetheless responded.

"I won." He slurred, his voice deep and raw.

Before the soldiers could catch him, the man fell backwards onto the ground. He was out cold.

"Who _is_ that?" A soldier asked. The other bent down to read the dog tags and immediately glanced back up at his comrade, eyes wide.

"John Sheppard." The soldier stood up abruptly. "Fuck. That's _Major John Sheppard…_."

His comrade's mouth hung open in shock.

"Call the med unit…shit, Reynolds…he's been MIA for four days."

-------o-------

Sand. Tiny granules of earth sharpened by time. Light as the breeze. Terribly stubborn to get out of those hard-to-reach areas of man and machine.

Oh how John Sheppard hated sand.

He could feel it clumped in the tiny crevices of his ears, pasted to the waistline of his pants, accumulated within the bowels of his boots. Funny, though he was aware that he was in serious trouble, he could only concentrate on that hateful sand. The shit got everywhere. Didn't hide red stains too well, either.

The soft beat of air being chopped by the metal blades of a helicopter played distantly in his mind. He knew he was flying…he could never escape that wonderful feeling of weightlessness, after all. It was second nature to him. Through his bleary vision, he had surmised that he was on a chopper full of medics, heading back to base camp.

Huh, so he had made it after all. Surprise. Not exactly pleasant, but nonetheless, better than the alternative, he supposed. He had expected death, even welcomed it. But it seemed that wasn't what fate had in mind for him. No, John Sheppard was a man of steel, apparently. For after surviving the death of those he had come to rescue, he had been dragged through hell, fought with the devil, and came out the other side so much worse for the wear.

Right now, he hated that sand for all its worth. Hated how it sprayed into the air in shimmering sheets, how easily it tainted with red, how it got into every little open cut on his pummeled body….

"Sir? We're almost to the base. We're going to take good care of you, sir. Just hang on." A disembodied voice carried over the chopping of air.

The air was tense around him. He knew that physically _and_ mentally, he was up shit creek. He was severely dehydrated, had lost a lot of blood, and was most likely sporting a fever. His body had been put to the test, and though he was sure he had won, he didn't think the test was completely over with yet.

And for the life of him, he couldn't remember the name of the captain he had rescued from the downed helicopter. All he could remember was the shoe size the man wore. Now how the hell would he know something like that?

Another voice interrupted his damning of that dreaded sand.

"Sir, look at me. I need you to look at me, sir." Fingers were snapped and he was sure he saw movement, but he began to realize that the light was fading fast. He was losing consciousness.

He coughed. Tasted something metallic on his tongue but there was something else too. Tiny little granules of sand.

Damn.

-------o-------

Turns out the Taliban almost won. Sheppard remained in critical condition for seven days before he finally turned the corner. He wasn't aware for most of it and found he was content with that fact. No one ever mentioned the hell the hero had to suffer after saving the day.

Well, his fellow buddies who came in for a quick peak labeled him as a hero, anyway. It was in reality, the farthest thing from what he was currently calling himself. A failure.

He had defied his CO's orders to head into an unknown situation with potential danger. His CO had fifteen years of experience over him but somehow Sheppard found his own stubbornness overruling. He _knew_, damn it. Knew beyond a doubt that he could simply waltz in and save those men, bring them back to a cheering camp, and spend the night spinning stories a mile long while drowning the horrors away in a bottle or two of booze.

How naïve he had been. Now he knew better. It had marked him in such a way that no matter what his superiors had in store for him now, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would think, act, and hell, _breathe_ differently for the rest of his life.

His profession now represented death. He was the bringer of death.

A voice sent him crashing out of his reverie and back to the bitterly bright and sunny present. Pleasant days like this were like a slap in the face to him and he could only blame his recent experiences. Confined to his hospital bed had nothing to do with it.

"Major John Sheppard."

He turned. Gray eyes met hazel.

"General Ward Sheppard, sir." He tilted his head briefly in greeting but a smile never formed upon his thin lined lips. His father stood in full military dress at the door of the room, hat tucked under one arm, and a firm scowl planted upon that aged and weary face.

The general stepped into the room, closed the door behind him, and came to stand at the foot of the bed. Those gray eyes drilled into him, studying him as if to find answers to questions that didn't deserve to be answered under such scrutiny.

"Your court martial is scheduled for November 28th at 0800 hours. Do you have any questions?"

John swallowed hard. He knew this was coming, but to have it come from his father was more than a little unsettling. He averted his eyes, glancing out to the intensely bright window to his right. The light hurt his eyes, but the alternative view hurt worse. Thankfully, his father didn't demand that he stay at attention. One small grace.

"We will never speak of this again. Any of this. You are a disgrace to the Sheppard name. I wish to have nothing to do with you when this is over. I've come to tell you that it is most favorable that you will not be given a dishonorable discharge. My opinions on the matter apparently don't have warrant."

John shifted his gaze to stare deep into eyes of hatred. Somehow it was more chilling than the looks the Taliban had given him before beating him into submission. His heart filled with immense sorrow that was accompanied by pity for his father. The man was so cold yet he could be so kind at other times. Few as those had been in his childhood, John had never completely hated his father because of it. Now…now he didn't think he really had a father anymore.

His "father" made to turn and leave.

"Wait." John blurted out, before he realized what he wanted to say. The general turned back with a glare. Sheppard knew what that meant. He added, "Sir."

"Permission to speak."

John snorted subconsciously. The man had never been at ease his entire life.

"You always had faith in the military, but not in a human being. It took me a lifetime to figure out what made you tick. You made life miserable for everyone around you because that's all you had ever known. I actually felt sorry for you." John paused, reading his father's unease in the stiff shoulders, the downcast eyes avoiding his. "We aren't that different you know. In fact, we're too damn similar. We're stubborn, we don't give up, and we are loyal to our fellow man. Perfect qualities for a soldier. Gets us in trouble from time to time, too. I didn't go back for those men to make a point. I went back not because I knew them personally, but because if I had been in their shoes, I would have liked to have known that someone out there was gunning for me. That I wasn't a piece of shit on the wall, a speck, something to overlook and forget. That I meant something; that I existed for a reason. Everyone needs that validation. You never gave me that satisfaction. I've fought with everything I have to do the exact opposite. Every life counts. Every. Single. One. We grow up wishing never to be like our parents for a reason, SIR. To better mankind by doing the best we can, not to be like those who raised us. If I hadn't gone back, I would have simply fallen in your footsteps. I couldn't disappoint myself like that. No way in hell, SIR."

An agonizingly long silence followed with both men staring hard at each other. The general cleared his throat.

He opened his mouth then closed it, his brow creased in a permanent frown. His eyes searched John's. Trying to read them without revealing too much of what was going on in his mind.

"Your mother loved you, isn't that enough?" It was a cold statement, but John read through the wavering voice, understanding the full weight of it. General Ward Sheppard was incapable of love. A hard truth, but one he had to bear.

John shifted, stifling a grunt of pain.

"Too bad I couldn't remember her enough to know it." John replied. His mother had died when he was two and a half: before he was old enough to remember her. Sometimes he thought he could when smelling a particular scent…that of jasmine, but it was always as faint as a dream upon waking.

"It's best we never speak again, agreed?" The statement was shocking but it was delivered as if the man was simply commenting on the weather.

"Best news I've had all day." John sniffed bitterly. His father gained eye contact once more with him. There was something in those eyes. Maybe a hint of regret? Or compassion? Whatever it was, it was gone in an instant and the general had turned swiftly and left the room. John felt hot stinging tears spring to his eyes and there was nothing he could do to stop them. Damned drugs. He could blame the painkillers all he wanted but he knew deep down it was the last time he would ever see his father.

Thank goodness family had nothing to do with blood, by his book.

-------o-------

Standing before the head honchos of the court martial felt disturbingly similar to standing before that line of Taliban trying their hand at Russian roulette. It sent rolls of unease through his already queasy stomach.

Sheppard took a few weeks to heal, going through torturous physical therapy in a German hospital for a month, then through a few grueling sessions with the military shrink. A real party. The only good thing that came out of it was that he wasn't anywhere near sand for the entire time.

By the time his actions were brought under scrutiny, he had closed off to everyone and everything. Being numb was incredibly comfortable, he found out. Quite alluring to the point that he never wanted to leave it's protective shell.

Standing before those men in full military dress, Sheppard locked his gaze on a point just above their scrutinizing stares.

"How do you plead?" The question had been repeated four times now, and still Sheppard couldn't get beyond the tightening in his throat to answer.

Flashes of pain and torture would intermittently disrupt his thoughts ever since he woke in that German hospital. He couldn't recall the full extent of his time in enemy hands, thanks to a severe concussion, but there were still the sensations that crept back in. A smell, a taste, even the feel of skin brushing up against his own sent his mind reeling. A military psychologist suggested PTSD but he was no fool. That was just a medical term derived from drug companies so that more prescriptions could be filled. No way was he falling for that shit. In reality, though, he knew it was true: he was suffering terrible nightmares, flashbacks, and feelings of intense anxiety. But he also knew he was strong, that he could overcome it, given enough time. Just leave John Sheppard the hell alone and he'd be all right. Just wait and see.

Sometimes it disturbed him that he had empty voids in his memory and other times, he was incredibly thankful. Yet it was a pity that he cringed every time he had to step foot on sand.

"Not guilty, sir."

The board before him took their time mulling with each other, voices low to a murmur. There were a few supporters in the room, mostly John's fellow comrades in arms. No sign of his father, of course. A few of his friends had even stood up to defend him during the trial, but it seemed their words were fruitless. The men of law seated before him did not care who he was as an individual. They only saw the facts sprawled out before them on paper. They saw a soldier who had defied orders that lead to the death of five servicemen. Three had been American and Sheppard later found out that the other two had been Canadian. It amazed Sheppard that even though he hadn't struck the final blow for those five men, just by his being with them at the times of their deaths, he was at fault. Thankfully it was just his father that had it in for him.

"Despite the words of your fellow men as well as your own…_harrowing _account of events, we find you guilty under Article 92: failure to obey order or regulation as well as Article 108: damage or destruction of military property of the United States. You will now carry a permanent black mark on your record as a reminder of your wrongful actions." The speaker leaned forward on bent elbows, his piercing gaze not even phasing Sheppard in the slightest. He continued to stand at attention, his gaze held tight on the pale gray wall beyond.

"Off the record, Major, I just want to say that if it weren't for a certain…_influence_…in the chain of command, you'd see your ass out of the military so fast you would have never known you had ever served any time at all. That said, I wish to personally state that it was an incredibly stupid thing you did…but at the same time, it was incredibly brave, heroic, and downright impressive. I envy you for it. You know when to take action and you do what is necessary to maintain the objective. You'd make a great leader, major. But you don't follow the proper chain of command and that's what it all falls back onto. "

They stared at each other for a very long moment before the speaker continued. There was admiration in the speaker's eyes, not disdain, as Sheppard had often seen following his return from the trenches of hell.

"On the record, we sentence you to a permanent transfer to the McMurdo base in Antarctica with two years forfeiture of pay and allowances. You narrowly avoided a dishonorable discharge, major. Don't make us regret it."

Swallowing thickly, Sheppard nodded once to acknowledge the speaker. Once dismissed, he swiftly turned and left the courtroom.

-------o-------

Whoever said time heals all wounds never lived long enough to discover that such a statement was pure bullshit.

Ripples of blue sparkled from horizon to horizon below him. The feeling of weightlessness consumed him. He was being transported to Antarctica direct from Afghanistan. Not like he had much to go back to the states for at this point anyway.

As a friendly military send-off, he hadn't even been allowed to fly there himself. He had to have an escort…as if the military half expected him to go AWOL and fly to some tropical paradise to spend the remainder of his miserable life. Not that the thought hadn't crossed his mind….

He lost himself in the cerulean blue below, only distantly noting how sickeningly similar the ocean resembled a sea of sand.

Sheppard no longer cared what his future held for him. He had nothing to aspire for…there was little chance of promotion and nearly every soldier and officer not from his unit gave him a glare that sent tendrils of ice seeping into his veins. There was little respect for him outside the circle of those who really knew what had happened back in the devil's playground. Once it was noted he was black marked, it was as swift as a death sentence in judgment of his character.

Well, he figured tailoring to stuffy scientists studying the mating rituals of penguins would be a refreshing change. After all, there wasn't much else in the way of excitement on the coldest place on Earth. Oh the irony: he was leaving the hottest hell for the coldest hell. How fitting, really.

Bitter, alone, and left out to rot. Sheppard blinked and shifted his gaze to the distant horizon out the front shield of the helicopter. A thin line of dull gray suggested the first vestiges of ice and snow. His final destination.

Taking a deep breath, he felt a refreshing sense of relief. Here, there would be no inquiring gazes or hate-filled glares. He was free now. He was unable to hold back the smile that crept onto his lips.

Afghanistan had taught him more than he ever wished to acknowledge at present. Yes, he had failed in his mission to retrieve those men, and save Holland (the name had come back to him a month later). But he had survived. Been through hell and back in fact and all the more wise because of it. Sure, if given the chance, he would do it all over again in a heartbeat; with the one exception of coming back with five living and breathing fellow servicemen.

Sheppard closed his eyes, took another liberating lungful of air, and opened them again, focusing them on the serenity of vast blue all around him.

He'd have his day to redeem himself. For now, he was content with simply being alive.

------- The End -------


End file.
